M. Rose - The Secret Language of Stones

“I’m sorry we argued. Sorrier still you won’t come home with me. I guessed as much. I understand you feel like you have a mission to fulfill here. I brought this for you. It won’t solve all your problems, but it will help some…”

She handed me a book. It fit in the palm of my hand. Made of cordovan leather with gold tooling on the front, elaborate letters spelling out five words.

THE DAUGHTERS OF LA LUNE

“It’s our history, and our rules. La Lune guided me to find it in the bell tower when I was just about your age. She taught me its lessons. I always dreamed I’d be the one to teach them to you. Promise me you’ll study it?”

I took the book from her, held it, and heard far-off music. Soft and lilting. Bells and harps. If the stars sang, certainly this would be their song.

The music grew louder when I opened the book. I touched the smooth parchment paper and breathed in its antique scent. I read my name printed on the frontispiece.

OPALINE DUPLESSI, THE 44TH DAUGHTER OF LA LUNE

Turning the pages, I discovered a highly illustrated account of our family, going back to the sixteenth century, followed by a list of rules of witchcraft and then…

“What are these?” I asked my mother, pointing to what appeared to be the first of many complex recipes.

“Spells. Those we’ve collected over the years, and some new ones I’ve created.”

“This is a grimoire?”

She nodded. “Yes, your grimoire. And it’s protected so no one else can steal it or alter it.”

“But why is the last third empty?”

“Each of us is charged with creating our own magick, Opaline. There’s room there for you to make notes and preserve your discoveries for future generations. You found the silver sheets, didn’t you? Those fit into the book, with space on them for you to engrave your own spells.”

“How can there be so much I don’t know about you, about us?” I asked.

“You didn’t want to know.” She smiled her mystical smile again, leaned forward, and kissed me on the forehead. “I know you won’t come home now, but you will come home when the war is over; promise me you’ll come then?”

“Yes, as soon as the war is over, Maman.”

Getting up, she turned off the light and walked to the door. She stopped, her hand on the jamb, and looked back at me.

“ Mon ange , your Jean Luc is real. How else could I have seen him to paint if he wasn’t?”

The following afternoon, I went down to the vault again, this time to choose tsavorites and emeralds and amethysts of various shades for a brooch of my own design. The large cluster of grapes could be pinned to a lapel or taken apart to make a set of earrings and a smaller cluster brooch.

Monsieur Orloff offered me a rare compliment, saying “Your piece is very well conceived,” and then he added several more grapes to the top, making the triangle a more interesting shape after the two grapes were separated out for the earrings.

I’d found eight amethysts so far, large ovals with a lovely deepness. The facets flashed a tiny bit of pink when I held them to the light. My book of gems said that the royal purple stones becalmed their wearer but also increased awareness and psychic ability. Considering my state, I was almost afraid to handle the gems.

I’d just picked out another stone when I heard a noise. Was Monsieur coming down to the vault? I’d been there a long time. Perhaps he needed me.

When he didn’t appear, I continued my quest. I found a ninth grape, and then, while I searched through the drawer for the tenth, the noise came again but from a more clear direction: from the chamber backing up to the vault.

Working quickly, I emptied the bottom three shelves of objects, removed the shelves themselves, extinguished my light, and then extracted the loose mortar from the wall as I’d done before.

Immediately, I heard a cacophony of sounds. Just like last time. How much of the din was happening in the present? How much of it, the past?

I tried to press my fingernail into my palm to create the distraction I needed, but it didn’t help.

Through the peephole, I watched the men settle. There were no clues about their affiliation from their shoes, but I did see the butt end of one rifle. And then another.

Straining to hear anything to help me identify the language they were speaking, I pressed my fingernail deeper into my flesh, but the symphony of noises continued to roar in my ears.

Did these men have so much blood on their hands that they carried the screams of the dead with them? If that was true, then they must be German soldiers.

I needed to tell Monsieur Orloff, but dreaded how it would feed his paranoia. What if instead I went to the police and-

Some object flashed close, too close, to the peephole. One of the men had dropped something. As he bent to pick it up, his face was only the thickness of the wall away from mine. Had he seen the crack? Seen me?

As quietly as I could, I quickly pushed the piece of mortar back. What could he see from his side? I’d taken precautions, again shrouded the vault in darkness. But could the light from their torches illuminate my face?

And if he had seen me? Were they pointing to the wall now, discussing whether or not there’d really been a girl there? If they looked again, they’d see nothing. Would they try to break through the wall? And the person who’d seen me-had he gotten a good enough look to recognize me?

Shaking, I gathered up the amethysts, tsavorites, and emeralds I’d come for and left the vault.

What if they were building a bomb and were planning to blow up the Palais? Should I go to the police straightaway? No, I needed to tell Monsieur first.

I climbed upstairs and prepared to tell him, but found Monsieur occupied with a client, showing her a variety of his signature linked bracelets-the top of each link pavéd with gems. Women usually bought more than one, collecting the colorful bracelets until a few inches of studded chain covered each wrist.

I couldn’t interrupt him when he was with a client. No one could break that rule, not even Anna.

I went back to work, trying to distract myself by arranging the stones on my drawing of the brooch. Only a few minutes had passed when the sirens started.

“What an interruption these are,” I heard Monsieur say to his client. “You must come with us to our shelter.”

I walked out of the workshop as I heard her arguing that her driver was outside and she intended to go home, and with two of the bracelets.

As dangerous as the bombs were, as many people who’d died or been wounded by flying glass and falling stone, others had become angry at the war, at the interruptions, and found satisfaction defying the danger.

“I’ll walk you to your car then, Madame Blanche.”

Anna stuck her head in the workshop to tell me she’d wait for Monsieur, but that I should go down to the shelter.

When I arrived, Grigori had already made himself as comfortable as possible. Five minutes later, after locking up the jewels on display in the shop, Monsieur and Anna joined us.

Grigori and his father didn’t greet each other but merely nodded. So they’d been arguing again. Anna broke the silence.

“What did Madame Blanche buy, Pavel?

Intently examining his son, who’d picked up a book and was leafing through the pages, Monsieur needed to ask Anna to repeat her question.

“I asked what Madame Blanche purchased.”

“An emerald and a sapphire chain bracelet.”

“There’s no question, the war has certainly been profitable for those who own textile mills,” Anna mused.

Monsieur directed a question to his son, his voice even gruffer than usual: “You are coming to the meeting tonight regarding the Dowager, correct?”